"All debts are canceled. From here on out, I can't predict where this will take me."
Toro frowned.
"You fear that it will lead you to my people.
Mis hermanos."
"I've considered it," the Executioner admitted candidly.
"And I." The Cuban leaned across toward Bolan, and there was a sadness mixed with pain in Toro's eyes. "I understand Ornelas, his
soldados.
They have spent a lifetime fighting
Fidelistas.
First encouraged by your government, then punished."
Your
government. Mack Bolan read the none-too-subtle message loud and clear. It drove the meaning home — that they were different, he and Toro. Different warriors with — perhaps — different wars to wage.
"I feel the same anger," Toro was continuing. "But even so..."
He hesitated, struggling with a problem that had clearly nagged him long and hard.
"A man must know his enemies," the Cuban said at last. "The blood, it is not enough. In here..." he tapped his chest above the heart "...a man can die before his time. A brother can betray his blood."
The Executioner was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was solemn.
"Blood doesn't always make a brother."
Toro nodded.
"Si. Comprendo.
I will help you... if I can."
Bolan felt the shadow pass between them once again, but briefly. He dismissed it, knowing that he could not chart the Cuban's course of action for him. He trusted Toro's instincts, his sense of honor.
Bolan rose, prepared to leave.
"I'm on the numbers, Toro. Give you a ride somewhere?"
The Cuban shook his head and nodded toward the kitchen telephone.
"I make a call," he said. "There are
soldados
still that I can trust."
"Okay. Is there someplace I can leave a message?"
Toro thought about it for an instant, finally rattled off a number from memory, and Bolan memorized it.
"I'll be in touch," he promised.
Toro rose and clasped his hand in parting, wrung it warmly.
"Vaya con dios, amigo."
And the Cuban's sudden smile was dazzling.
"Viva grande,
Matador."
Live large. Damn right.
The Executioner was out of there and tracking, leaving Toro to his own devices. They were separate soldiers, separate wars.
Mack Bolan hoped that they would meet again as allies, or at least as friendly neutrals. He had no wish to take the brave
soldado's
life, or risk his own in the attempt.
But he was moving now, and there could be no turning back.
Hunting.
Seeking out the savages in civilized Miami.
Rattling cages, right.
And living large.
10
The
bolita
handler shook his burlap bag filled with numbered Ping-Pong balls. He swung it twice around his head and let it fly. In the audience a planted "catcher" shouldered two smaller men aside and snatched the tumbling bag out of midair, holding it aloft and shaking it in triumph. Then he untied the bag and reached inside, drawing out one of the balls and barely glancing at it, tossing it up to the handler on the dais.
The handler made a show of staring at the ball, as if he had some difficulty reading the single digit painted on its surface. Finally he raised it between a thumb and forefinger for the small crowd to examine.
"Nueve.
Number nine."
Down on the betting floor two or three patrons gave a halfhearted cheer; the rest stood silent or groaned softly, crumpling the numbered betting slips they held in their hands.
Three winners, maybe twenty losers. It was just about the right proportion for a crowd this size, Ernesto Vargas thought.
At thirty-six, Vargas was the boss and operator of a moderate but lucrative
bolita
territory covering Coral Gables and surrounding neighborhoods. Some three years off the boat, he was already doing better than he ever dreamed was possible in Cuba.
Connections had got him started in
bolita
and staked him to his first successful parlor — a debt that he had long ago repaid with interest.
Common sense would take him to the top in time, if he did not step on any lethal toes along the way.
Ernesto Vargas had been learning from the moment he set foot upon the mainland
Toro frowned.
"You fear that it will lead you to my people.
Mis hermanos."
"I've considered it," the Executioner admitted candidly.
"And I." The Cuban leaned across toward Bolan, and there was a sadness mixed with pain in Toro's eyes. "I understand Ornelas, his
soldados.
They have spent a lifetime fighting
Fidelistas.
First encouraged by your government, then punished."
Your
government. Mack Bolan read the none-too-subtle message loud and clear. It drove the meaning home — that they were different, he and Toro. Different warriors with — perhaps — different wars to wage.
"I feel the same anger," Toro was continuing. "But even so..."
He hesitated, struggling with a problem that had clearly nagged him long and hard.
"A man must know his enemies," the Cuban said at last. "The blood, it is not enough. In here..." he tapped his chest above the heart "...a man can die before his time. A brother can betray his blood."
The Executioner was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was solemn.
"Blood doesn't always make a brother."
Toro nodded.
"Si. Comprendo.
I will help you... if I can."
Bolan felt the shadow pass between them once again, but briefly. He dismissed it, knowing that he could not chart the Cuban's course of action for him. He trusted Toro's instincts, his sense of honor.
Bolan rose, prepared to leave.
"I'm on the numbers, Toro. Give you a ride somewhere?"
The Cuban shook his head and nodded toward the kitchen telephone.
"I make a call," he said. "There are
soldados
still that I can trust."
"Okay. Is there someplace I can leave a message?"
Toro thought about it for an instant, finally rattled off a number from memory, and Bolan memorized it.
"I'll be in touch," he promised.
Toro rose and clasped his hand in parting, wrung it warmly.
"Vaya con dios, amigo."
And the Cuban's sudden smile was dazzling.
"Viva grande,
Matador."
Live large. Damn right.
The Executioner was out of there and tracking, leaving Toro to his own devices. They were separate soldiers, separate wars.
Mack Bolan hoped that they would meet again as allies, or at least as friendly neutrals. He had no wish to take the brave
soldado's
life, or risk his own in the attempt.
But he was moving now, and there could be no turning back.
Hunting.
Seeking out the savages in civilized Miami.
Rattling cages, right.
And living large.
10
The
bolita
handler shook his burlap bag filled with numbered Ping-Pong balls. He swung it twice around his head and let it fly. In the audience a planted "catcher" shouldered two smaller men aside and snatched the tumbling bag out of midair, holding it aloft and shaking it in triumph. Then he untied the bag and reached inside, drawing out one of the balls and barely glancing at it, tossing it up to the handler on the dais.
The handler made a show of staring at the ball, as if he had some difficulty reading the single digit painted on its surface. Finally he raised it between a thumb and forefinger for the small crowd to examine.
"Nueve.
Number nine."
Down on the betting floor two or three patrons gave a halfhearted cheer; the rest stood silent or groaned softly, crumpling the numbered betting slips they held in their hands.
Three winners, maybe twenty losers. It was just about the right proportion for a crowd this size, Ernesto Vargas thought.
At thirty-six, Vargas was the boss and operator of a moderate but lucrative
bolita
territory covering Coral Gables and surrounding neighborhoods. Some three years off the boat, he was already doing better than he ever dreamed was possible in Cuba.
Connections had got him started in
bolita
and staked him to his first successful parlor — a debt that he had long ago repaid with interest.
Common sense would take him to the top in time, if he did not step on any lethal toes along the way.
Ernesto Vargas had been learning from the moment he set foot upon the mainland
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